And I do. I can tell by the stars which direction they’re moving. Only there’s one thing I could never, in all my days, have imagined my eyes would ever behold.
A head. Pierced through the mouth on the tip of the bowsprit.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to unsee the image, but it might be imprinted in my mind until I leave this world.
“What’s wrong?” Alexus and Nephele say at the same time.
Without looking at the water again, I reach for the dish and toss the liquid on the ground so I can begin anew.
“Vexx is sailing east,” I tell them, rushing the words, suddenly not feeling any desire to eat. “He… harmed someone. You do not want details.”
No need to ruin their appetites, and I don’t want to make Nephele feel guilty. This was clearly retaliation for Joran killing Rooke. The head probably belonged to a sailor or someone he made an example of for his crew of Northlanders. I feel such disgust for him, such utter loathing. If there are any Ancient Ones listening, I pray they hear my plea that I be the one who ends that man’s life.
Shaken, I pour more water and bleed again to see Yazmin and Finn. Yazmin sits alone in the cove with a glass of wine, her love and worry drifting all the way across the sea. But Finn…
Finn is nowhere. No matter how hard I look, no matter how hard I think about him, he doesn’t appear.
“What’s the matter now?” Nephele says, my face obviously telling all.
“Finn,” I sign. “I cannot see him.”
“Perhaps you’re only tired,” Alexus says. “Maybe rest will help.”
Or perhaps I’m that disturbed by Vexx’s cruelty that I cannot focus. Still, I try again, and again I fail.
Nephele grabs my hand as I lift the dagger to try another time. “Raina, it’s all right. Finn is probably sleeping and healing. You’re exhausted from last night and today. Try to eat and rest. You can always consult the waters again tomorrow.”
Though I don’t want to hear it, I know she’s right. I put aside the dish just as Rhonin and Hel appear around a stone corner, laughing with each other despite everything, several hares in tow.
Hel smiles and proudly holds up her kill. “Who’s ready to eat?”
The ride toward Elam and the Ske-Trana provinces is an arduous one.
The dirt and gravel road is flat and straight, blending into sandier terrain, but the wind is high, whipping our clothes and hair and pelting us with grit. I can smell hot sand carried from the southwest, from the mountains. It’s like traveling in a whirl of constant dust.
Even though Alexus tries to shield me from the heavier gusts, my eyes burn from the intrusion and the occasional fleck of gravel that gets lost under my eyelid. Our faces and necks and hands are coated in grime from sweating, and there’s even sand in my teeth, grating my throat. All of that while riding as swiftly as possible, in improper clothing beneath an ever-warming sun, makes the trek miserable. We Northlanders were clearly unprepared for the Summerland geography.
We ride like that for two more days, and we don’t reach the first sight of Ske-Trana until that second afternoon. Even then, it lies far in the distance, a sprawl of mud-brick beehive-shaped homes surrounded by flat, golden earth and dunes of sand in the far distance.
Imagining my mother here as a child, probably filthy and happy, playing in those sandy streets, helps me endure.
Early that evening, while the horizon is still lit with pink and orange light, we finally ride into Elam, our horses at a walk. I hold my long braid over my nose as another gust of sand swirls around us. The air is beginning to calm and cool for the night, though, and we need shelter. We need food and clothes and to trade our horses for camels too—if I can’t find a way to get us to the City of Ruin much faster. That’s my goal, even though Keth and Joran and even Rhonin and Alexus are a little uncertain about the endeavor.
There are no inns here. We stop at a few buildings that look like they might be of importance, but the doors are sealed for the day. There’s nothing else but mud-brick houses and what must be a school, and a simple temple built from the same mud-brick, which is where Alexus leads us.
Nephele and I share a glance, a realization that this might be part of our ancestry, but it’s not where we’ll find any living memory of our mother.
We tie our horses and enter the sacred hall, a band of sand and dirt-covered travelers. I don’t expect anyone to be here, and yet a brown-skinned man in a pewter gray robe starts down a center aisle lit by standing oil lamps that divide at least fifty individual places for prayer, replete with a rush mat, colorful pillow for kneeling, and a candle waiting to be lit. He holds up a hand to halt us from entering further.
I glance at Nephele. She rubs her dusty cheeks, her eyes red and irritated, as I consider who the people of the Summerlands pray to—surely not Asha.
And yet, my sister raises her brows and glances toward the front of the temple where the stone image of a woman looks over the altar, a sword hilt in hand, the blade standing on its tip. How strange to see what they imagine Asha to be like, this goddess who has lived in stories for me.
Another look around, and I realize that Joran is still outside, staring straight ahead at Asha’s figure with the brightest, most penetrating stare. Nephele watches him so closely, but he remains outside, eventually stepping away and returning to the horses.
When I turn back toward Asha, the attendant motions to Alexus who walks deeper into the sanctuary to meet him. They speak quietly while the rest of us walk around the entry room, studying the wooden paintings and woven tapestries hanging on the walls.
Nephele comes to stand at my side, and then Hel, and then Zahira, and then Callan, and even Jaega. We all lean on one another in some way, our days together having created a bond of our own. One of trust, growing friendships, and a wealth of intuition.
